


Found Family – Once Found, No-one’s Going Anywhere.

by SaintClaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (and the terrifying), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Competency, Fauntleroy POV, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, I take a lot of very terrifying people and show the soft part, Knives, M/M, Patron-Minette - Freeform, always knives with Patron-Minette, and we love them, grevious injury but I promise it's okay, nonbinary fauntleroy, serious injury, the found family is a bit more along the lines of the feral dog pack living behind the dumpster, threats of hurting a paramedic that is never followed through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintClaire/pseuds/SaintClaire
Summary: Claquesous gets hurt on a job, and the result is like nothing Fauntleroy has never seen.  He's family, goddammit.  That means something to Patron-Minette.-“You got a fright as well then?”Claquesous’ voice sounds shit, croaky and breathy and muffled by the mask on his face, but there’s real words coming out and Fauntleroy smiles, the asshole statement enough to prove Claquesous is still home.
Relationships: Claquesous & Fauntleroy (Les Misérables), Claquesous/Montparnasse (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Found Family – Once Found, No-one’s Going Anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'll just leave it for these two tonight. Please let me know if there's any tags you think that need to be added - more than happy to put them up.

To see Claquesous’ mask tossed carelessly against the leg of the kitchen table is unsettling in a way that the pool of blood on the floorboards is not. 

Gueulemer’s hands shine for a moment as he turns, ripping something out of his bag. The slick red of his hands gleams white under the lights for a moment as he moves, and Fauntleroy will never forgive themselves if they vomit now.

Montparnasse’s face is twisted in a feral snarl, but he’s pleading. He’s crouching beside Sous’ head, cupping his face with his hand and saying things too low and fast for them to hear. He seems totally unaware of the growing pool of blood staining his trousers, his white shirt liberally splattered with gore. He’s more dishevelled than Fauntleroy has ever seen him, and the sheer _wrongness_ is only second to Claquesous’ unmasked face, the red-stained paper-and-wood abandoned so carelessly on the ground.

Montparnasse looks like he is being torn to shreds in front of them.

Gueulemer has been making pointed jokes about the two of them for as long as Faunt’s been with Patron-Minette, but his face is currently set with concentration as he digs in the first aid case, and Fauntleroy’s stomach roils as they look away hurriedly.

Claquesous’ chest rises and falls. Pauses. The sound that slips from Montparnasse is anguished, a high-pitched keen that makes Fauntleroy rock on their feet in anxiety. They see Gueulemer grit their teeth and wish for the thousandth time that they had simply run the man through before he ever had time to reach for his holster.

Claquesous was still conscious when first Montparnasse carried him in, but he hasn’t responded for a while now. Capron stepped back some time ago, laying the bandages down, her face sombre. She had laid a hand on Gueulemer’s shoulder, and Fauntleroy had cowered backwards at the enraged snarl Gueulemer had let out, ripping himself away from Capron.

The bone-numbing horror breaks at the sound of the door being kicked in, and Fauntleroy has already moved halfway across the room, knives slipping into their hands before they take in Babet and Glorieux storming into the room. A uniformed paramedic stumbles ahead of them, her eyes wild with fear before her eyes fall on Claquesous and her expression clears. Glorieux lowers the gun at her back as she drops to the floor next to Gueulemer.

She’s obviously good at her job, even frightened half out of her mind; snatching gloves out of her pockets as she fires a rapid series of questions at Gueulemer, who answers in terse, short sentences. She presses down hard against Claquesous’ chest, and his body writhes against the floor, though his eyes don’t open. Montparnasse whips his head around, and the paramedic throws herself backwards at Montparnasse’s high-pitched scream, snarling through his teeth as he crouches over Claquesous protectively. Babet moves to his side, hand hovering over Montparnasse’s arm but not daring to touch him. His gun reappears as he orders the terrified paramedic back to Claquesous, but he remains hovering by Montparnasse, a shield between him and the woman. 

It’s a very thin line of defence. Montparnasse looks unhinged in a way that Fauntleroy has never seen before. His eyes are darting wildly between Claquesous and the paramedic and Babet, and his hands are shaking like he’s on a drug high. They can’t be sure Montparnasse even knows what he’s seeing in front of him right now, but the cold metal of a switchblade winks from his belt, and Fauntleroy knows better than to take the slightest step in Claquesous’ direction.

Capron tugs on their hand gently, and Fauntleroy follows her out of the room.

…

They take their leave out of the back door as Capron slips away, climbing up the fire escape until they slowly come up to the roof. 

Patron-Minette don’t use this place all that often. The safehouse was old when Glorieux offered it up for use. It’s an ugly view, but the cold air is refreshing in their lungs, and they like that they are able to watch from on high, to be outside. There’s only a sliver of moon, and the solid dark is comforting. They like hiding amongst the dark.

They lose track of how long they sit there, listening to the far-off sirens. There is no sound from below. Eventually, a gently metallic ringing gets their attention – Capron hitting her ringed hand against the handrail of the fire escape, and they take a last look at the spaces between the city lights before they head back down the stairs.

…

Claquesous is still lying on the floor where Fauntleroy had left, his breathing evened out to long, slow rises. His face is still white, completely bloodless, but he doesn’t look like he’ll slip away in the space between one blink and the next. 

Montparnasse is still sitting next to him, but he’s no longer crouched over his body like something will rip Claquesous away, and his eyes have lost the worst of their feral haze.

It makes something in their chest twist to look at the two of them, so they go into the kitchen instead, where Capron has started peeling potatoes with wicked looking knife. They’re too tired to keep from groaning as they drop into the chair opposite her. They pick up the kitchen knife from the table and abandon it in disgust, it’s as blunt as a stone. Capron smirks at them as they slip one of their own knives out of their belt, and they hesitate before getting back up to run it under the hot water for a minute before sinking back into their chair and pulling the bag a bit closer.

“Babet and Gueulemer have gone to have a little chat to a few people,” Capron said softly, flicking chunks of potatoes into the pot between them. “Glorieux took care of the paramedic.”

She must see something in Fauntleroy’s expression flicker, and smiles weakly in their direction. “Not like that. They brought her in blindfolded, he’s just going to drop her back off somewhere.”

They nod, relaxing a few degrees. Babet and Gueulemer have kept them away from their messier wet work so far, letting them prove themselves first, but the events of tonight have left a sour taste in their mouth. They’re glad the paramedic will get to go home alive. 

“Claquesous?”

Capron’s lips press together, and Fauntleroy’s throat tightens. They haven’t been afraid in a long time. Not this type of afraid, where the consequences will come no matter how viciously they fight or how sharp their knives are.

“She said he’ll probably pull around.” Capron’s eyes were fixed on the potatoes, and she didn’t raise her head to look at them. “She set him up with a bag of stuff, we had blood on hand.”

This was news to Fauntleroy, who hadn’t realised that Patron-Minette’s first aid supplies extended this far, but they merely nodded.

“We’ll keep a close watch on him overnight. She said she’d sewn what the bullet tore, and he’s got blood, and it’s not like we don’t know the signs of an infection-“ Her hands were moving faster with the knife, spitting chunks of potato into the pot like she was trying to hit something. 

“Montparnasse looks a little better,” they offered, and Capron seized their words.

“Yes.” The continued in silence for a while, before Capron’s phone rang a sharp series of notes.

“Glorieux went to go help Babet and G with something, but they’ll all be back in an hour,” she read, scanning the screen with her thumbs flying rapidly over the keyboard as she typed out a reply.

Her phone pings again as another message comes through, presumably from Glorieux, and they watch her smile for a moment, the tension on her face broken for a moment as she reads the text, before she slips the phone back into her pocket.

Fauntleroy stands up and stretches, before heaving the pot onto the stove top. If Glorieux went to help Babet and Gueulemer, it likely meant more than a few bodies had dropped, and Glorieux has gone to help clean up. 

They idly hope that the trio left someone for Montparnasse, flicking the gas on. They had a feeling they would have. Patron-Minette did not care for rats. Sometimes, the most efficient way to deal with a rat was to put it in a cage for a while. 

They had been with Patron-Minette for over 18 months now, and in the entire time they’d been around, they had never seen so much as a ruffled hair on Montparnasse’s head. He and Claquesous were untouchable, a fine-tuned duet. Their very nature was one that specialised in adapting. 

They finish dumping the other ingredients in the pot and step out of the way to let Capron put the lid on, idly holding her hands out toward the flames from the gas burner. The both stand there in silence for a moment, while Capron warms her hands.

“We should clean up outside,” she says softly.

They nod. There isn’t much else they can do to help for now. 

…

The others come home not long after, and a small flood of warm relief drains through Fauntleroy’s chest to have everyone home again, under the one roof.

They shift Claquesous onto Montparnasse’s bed, and Fauntleroy pretends they don't see the traces of Claquesous in this room. Beside them, Gueulemer averts his eyes as well, and they carefully skirt around the battered laptop on the floor, the black jeans and the steel toed boots that they all know do not belong to Montparnasse. 

Claquesous looks perilously fragile in the silk sheets, and the two of them slip out silently as Montparnasse lays down beside him, curling up on the bed facing Claquesous, not even turning over to glare at them as they make their way quietly out of his bedroom. 

They wait until they are down the stairs before they speak, wanting to be well and truly out of Montparnasse’s earshot. “Will he be alright?” They wet their lips, the words coming out haltingly and Gueulemer glances at them. “Should we maybe have left someone else there as well?”

Gueulemer was already shaking his head before they finished their question. “Better to give Montparnasse some space,” he said softly, and it doesn’t escape Fauntleroy’s notice that he only answered part of their question. Gueulemer slips as small black device out of his pocket, about the size of a palm reader. They glance at it curiously as he tucks it back into his jacket. “It’s a heart monitor.” He meets Fauntleroy’s eye for the first time that night, and they feel a small rush of relief. “If anything changes, we’ll know about it.”

The statement is still far from comforting, but Gueulemer is standing straight again. There are still liberal amounts of Claquesous’ blood streaked over his clothes and arms, but there’s movement in his eyes again – a sign Fauntleroy takes to mean he has found his fight, and it’s one he will win. 

Gueulemer does not lose fights.

They plunk back down at the table, aimlessly picking up the potato knife again. They can hear Gueulemer move over to the sink, and they try not to gag as he turns the hot water on. The rich tang of blood in the air thickens as Gueulemer scrubs himself clean, and Fauntleroy sits as still as possible. Their thoughts are spinning wildly, out of control.

“He’s getting blood on ‘Parnasse’s sheets,” they mutter, and to their horror, they can feel tears pooling in their eyes. Capron looks at them in some alarm, catching onto the threat of tears in their voice and they blink rapidly. The words are coming out of their mouth too fast, and they cannot stop them. “Montparnasse isn’t even - ... he isn’t even – looking, he isn’t, isn’t even bothered – “

The tears are now overflowing, spilling hot down their face. Capron has pushed her chair back in readiness but is still sitting perched forward on her elbows – crying is not her domain, not even slightly. Gueulemer shuts the sink off and comes to pull up a chair next to them, placing an arm around their shoulders and pulling them into his side. They cry for a little while, out of fear and stress and regret, their thoughts too full of stained silk sheets and blunt potato knives and Claquesous’ empty mask to make any order of things. Gueulemer lets them cry themselves out, simply holding them tight.

Eventually the crying finishes, and they burrow into Gueulemer, feeling small and hopeless in a way they have not been for a very long time.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Gueulemer rumbles. “Claquesous is an obstinate fucker. Always has been.” He clears his throat and lays his other hand on Fauntleroy’s shoulder. “And Montparnasse isn’t going to let him die over some piece of shit _guard_ , of all things. Not a hope. He’s got this.”

Absurdly, this cheers Fauntleroy up very slightly. They recall the raw, manic energy in Montparnasse’s eyes. Montparnasse can and has kicked down every obstacle ever set in front of him, even on bad days. No matter how ugly the circumstances. It is impossible to imagine something that could overcome him, let alone something that could overcome he and Claquesous both. 

“Worst comes to worst, we take him to hospital.” Gueulemer’s tone is serious, but still has an edge of warmth that Fauntleroy hears as hope. “We’ll hold them at gunpoint if we have to. He’s not going anywhere.”

He takes a hanky out of one of his multitudes of pockets, and Fauntleroy takes it and blows their nose with a muttered ‘merci’. Capron, seemingly relieved that the crying has stopped sets a bowl in front of them. 

“It’s time to eat,” she insists, her voice hard with the horror of someone who does not know how to deal with weeping people, afraid for the family they love. “I didn’t make this fucking stew for it to go cold.”

Fauntleroy eats. 

…

Glorieux and Babet roll in at around 3am. They’re tired and filthy and Fauntleroy doesn’t want to look too closely at the stains on their hands, but the first thing they do is wash off and pull on fresh clothes, so they don’t have to.

No-one thinks it’s a good idea to go upstairs and risk the wrath of Montparnasse by disturbing Claquesous for something as base as self-reassurance, but Gueulemer leaves the heart monitor where everyone can see it, propped against a cup on the kitchen table. The steady flicker of the data coming through is comforting rather than upsetting, and some of the tension around Babet’s eyes loosens it’s stranglehold.

Gueulemer eventually sends them to bed. They’re all exhausted. The sky has moved from it’s deep black to an ever-lightening grey, and the rest of the world is about to wake up.

Fauntleroy stays long enough to watch Gueulemer drop onto the couch with a sigh, the heart monitoring device set on his shoulder, directly next to his ear before they drag themselves away to one of the spare bedrooms.

They don’t fall asleep right away, when they lie down. Their thoughts are full of too much and too nothing at the same time, and one ear is still listening out for Montparnasse or Gueulemer or both. When Capron sneaks into the room on light feet, it’s not a surprise. She doesn’t come too close, Capron is not a cuddler, but the new introduction of a warm, heavy weight on the mattress beside them and the gentle noise of her breathing is enough to send them to sleep as the skies get lighter outside the window.

…

They wake up together when a truck backfires loudly on the street outside. Capron leaves to take a shower, and Fauntleroy heads downstairs after snapping open the blinds. 

It’s past lunchtime, and they have slept for long enough that their eyes are no longer shutting of their own accord.

Downstairs, Glorieux is arguing softly with someone into the phone. He smiles warmly at Fauntleroy when they enter the room, and there’s a punch of relief in their chest. Glorieux would not smile like that if things were not alright. 

Babet angles his head into the room from the kitchen, holding a plate of food and his face is equally relieved when he beckons them into the kitchen. 

“Eat quickly, we’ve got jobs to run. I was just about to come wake you.”

The plate holds a mountain of scrambled eggs on toast, and they wolf it down efficiently. There’s a wide array of knives and handguns scattered across the kitchen table, all obviously recently cleaned, and Babet arms himself neatly, throwing a jacket on over his arsenal. 

“Sous?” they mumble through a mouthful of eggs. 

Babet smiles at the knife he’s inspecting. “He’s doing better.” He polishes the handle lightly against his shirt before tucking it into his belt. “He started to pick up a few hours ago. G ran out and got another medic in, but he’s definitely doing better.”

“Is he awake?” they ask, and try not to droop when Babet shakes his head. 

“Still out of it. Probably a good thing.” He snatches the plate out from under them as Fauntleroy barely gets the last forkful of eggs off the plate, and they throw the fork at his back for it. “G’s gone back to sleep for a bit. He knocked Montparnasse out with something after we knew ‘Sous was doing better. Surprised the fight didn’t wake you up actually.” Fauntleroy starts kitting themselves out with the pick of what’s before them, stripping out of the shirt to grab a fresh one from the pile without blood on it. 

“Is Montparnasse alright?”

“It’s Montparnasse. Don’t know that alright’s the word to use.” Babet’s words are cool and caustic, but the shape of his mouth betrays him. He and Montparnasse had been a very strange version of friends for years before Fauntleroy had met either of them. He did care. 

“He’ll do better for the sleep.” Babet’s voice brooks no argument, like Fauntleroy’s the one he has to convince about it. “He was starting to lose it.” 

They think of the manic, feral look in Montparnasse’s eyes last night, the lethal desperation in his body as he’d attacked the paramedic. 

Yes.

He would do better for the enforced sleep. They all need a reset. 

“So G’s asleep and will probably stay like that for a couple more hours, unless someone needs him, Claquesous is still out of it and the guys said he’d probably stay like that until tonight at the earliest, ‘Parnasse is still in with him because it was just easier, and Glorieux’s on the phone trying to clean up a couple of dead ends from last night. Capron can help him out.” Babet’s expression implies these people will quite literally be dead ends if he has his way about it, and they double knot their boot laces as they stand up. “Glorieux is staying here, to keep an eye on ‘Sous with Montparnasse asleep. You and I have work to do.”

There’s something volatile bubbling at the base of Fauntleroy’s chest. They take care of their own, and Claquesous is family.

“Good.”

…

As with most things in life, there’s an easy way to do things, and a hard way. Fauntleroy generally prefers the third option, which is to do it as dramatically as possible, and with showmanship to boot.

They’re taking the third way today.

This is only the prelude.

The cops of the precinct all twitch in their seats as they both come through the door. There are no active charges for either of them, which is why they were the ones able to come. Babet’s smile is downright nasty, and there’s a sneer curling across Fauntleroy’s face as the idiot on duty blusters his way out from behind his desk, demanding to know why they’re here.

Things had been too messy last night. It had gotten out of hand.

Unplanned, disorganised. Disgraceful. Claquesous will have a fit when he wakes up, they run a better show than this. But right now, Claquesous is still recovering from his deathbed in an ugly safehouse, and Fauntleroy doesn’t give a shit.

The man on duty is old enough to have heard of them, and new enough to be intimidated in his own fucking shop. It’s easy to stroll past him. There are not many people in the holding cages, but all of them sit up and take notice when the two of them walk into the room. Fauntleroy stretches out an arm to let their hand run across the bars, smiling as a couple of them flinch back.

The three shitheads they’re there for are over on the far left, and Babet chuckles delightedly as the other occupants move away hastily, as they zero in. There is visible fear on their faces.

“Having a good morning then?” Fauntleroy says sweetly. Their eyes feel poisonous, and one man cringes backwards on the bench. “Such a shame to be stuck in here, isn’t it? It’s a lovely day outside.”

The duty cop has followed them from out behind his quaint little desk and is now standing in the doorway trying not to wring his hands, looking like he can’t decide whether to call for help or whether to fish the baton out of his belt.

Babet crouches to the floor, the bend of his knees allowing his jacket to swing open. The light in this place is shit, but it’s enough to catch the slick metal of the blades lining Babet’s coat. These dipshits are already as far away from the two of them as they can get at the moment, but they flinch so badly they’d go backwards through the wall if it was a little thinner. Fauntleroy laughs, and smiles lazily at the cop as they prop one hip against the side of the cage.

“Gentleman! Such faces. Anyone would think we weren’t here to drop in and say a friendly hello.” All of Babet’s teeth are visible. Fauntleroy smirks as they continue, waving a hand at the cop as they do. “Wanted to let you know some friends will be dropping by, when you’re released on bail.” They shrug. “Or if you’re not. That’s the thing about our friends.” They smile widely, beatifically, and Babet rocks on his heels as he stares them down. “They make house calls.”

“All right, that’s enough”, the cop finally blusters. “You lot aren’t supposed to be here, so you can clear out before I arrest you for disrupting the peace.”

Babet stands up smoothly as Fauntleroy swings around, and the man lets out a short, high-pitched noise. A couple of the other men in the hold jeer openly, and the policeman’s face flushes badly at the chorus of heckling.

“You, you fucking pretty boy, get out of this station. I mean it! And take your fucking friend with you.” Fauntleroy shoves their hands in their pockets and flourishes a sweep of their own coat, dropping half into a demented, exaggerated curtesy as they sashay forwards, lower lip sticking out in a dramatic pout. 

“Oh, we’re going,” Babet stepped in. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they came through the door, and the awful, dark cadence of his voice has everyone cowering. Fauntleroy turns back to make eye contact with their little trio again, and gives a small, fluttery little wave, with a smile that promises violence. They stroll out as unhurriedly as they came in, ushering the cop out in front of them through his sheer lack of options. 

He’s gotten himself quite worked up now, like a moron, but they don’t bother listening to him as Babet kicks the door open, and they let themselves out onto the street, the cop still yelling uselessly at them from inside.

“Short,” they note, and Babet shrugs. 

“Doesn’t matter. Didn’t need to be long.”

“I want food before we go back,” they announce. “We can get some for the others as well.”

“I just made you like an entire plate of eggs!”

Fauntleroy sticks their leg out for Babet to trip over, and he only narrowly avoids it, swearing. “And I’m still hungry.”

Babet rolls his eyes. “Fine. But we still need to run a few things for Gueul, so your fucking stomach is going to have to wait.”

…

They are quite literally running the last of the clean up from last night. The place is a fucking mess, and while it doesn’t normally bother them, it strikes them while they get the bleach that this is _Sous’_ blood, and they have to take a couple of deep breaths through their mouth.

They clean in silence.

There are more clean clothes in the car, so they both strip off and burn the dirty clothes before they head out, leaving a nice little bonfire crackling away.

It’s growing dark again by the time they get back to the safehouse, Fauntleroy cheerfully leaving Babet to carry the shopping bags as they stamp up the stairs.

They can hear voices around but no people, so they kick off their boots and follow the noise into the living area, and then come to a sharp stop in the doorframe, Babet running into them from behind. 

Claquesous is on a mattress on the floor, sitting propped up against the wall and looking absolutely terrible, his face completely white but he’s awake and alive and upright and he’s _breathing._ Montparnasse is lying at his side, unnaturally still in a way that suggests he’s still very much drugged with heavy duty narcotics, but Fauntleroy does not care.

Claquesous is grinning weakly behind the oxygen mask he’s wearing, and Fauntleroy throws themselves onto the mattress, only narrowly missing squashing Montparnasse to throw their arms around Sous in a hug. They aren’t stupid, they don’t tackle him the way they _want_ to, because even the sudden jolt of Fauntleroy bouncing onto the mattress is enough to make Claquesous let out an odd groan. But they are completely on top of him and carefully weightless, and after a moment Claquesous’ arms gingerly come up to wrap around their waist and hug them back. 

They bury their face in his shoulder and they _do not_ cry, they just sit there listening to the hiss of air coming from the oxygen canister and holding onto their friend for all they're worth. 

“You got a fright as well then?” Claquesous’ voice sounds shit, croaky and breathy and muffled by the mask on his face, but there’s real words coming out and Fauntleroy smiles, the asshole statement enough to prove Claquesous is still home.

“Fuck you,” they mutter back, their face still pressed firmly into Claquesous’ shoulder.

“When Montparnasse wakes up, I’m telling him you’re cheating on him with Faun, Sous.” Babet is beaming so hard his joy could be used to power a small distract, and now Fauntleroy turns their head to look Gueulemer is also here, sitting comfortably along the length of the couch smiling at them like some kind of proud parent or something.

Claquesous is also evidently on a heavy drug cocktail, but he gets his middle finger up in time for Glorieux to see it as he comes into the room as well, and the resulting swearing has everyone smiling.

…

Claquesous doesn’t manage to stay awake much longer and falls asleep against Fauntleroy’s side. He doesn’t look comfortable, and Glorieux comes over to help Fauntleroy slide him gently down the mattress. 

They aren’t stupid, they know Sous’ injuries are still incredibly serious – even asleep Claquesous is groaning in pain, despite the fact that they’re trying to be as gentle as possible.

Glorieux untangles the oxygen tubing so it won’t get caught if he moves, and Fauntleroy leans over to pick up one of Montparnasse’s arms and drape it over Claquesous’ waist, arranging it over his hips so he can’t be pressing down on anything that hurts. They could be imagining the minute relaxation of Claquesous’ face with Montparnasse holding onto him, but they are choosing to believe they’re not, and they tuck their hands under their chin theatrically as they coo at the two of them.

Glorieux takes a photo, because he apparently doesn’t value his life overmuch if Montparnasse ever finds out about it.

“Too much of a nuisance running between his room and everywhere else,” Gueulemer said quietly. “Couldn’t be bothered. Figured I may as well stick them both in here where I could keep an eye on them and get some work done at the same time.” 

Fauntleroy is busy pulling another mattress over to set up on the other side of Claquesous, but they nod. 

“He only woke up about ten minutes before the two of you got back” Gueulemer rumbles, leaning backwards in a stretch and he groans as he puts his arms back down and rubs his stomach. “Parnasse is going to lose his shit when he finds out he woke up while he was still asleep.”

“He’ll get over it” was Babet’s opinion, as they watched him dump himself onto a pile of couch cushions on the floor with a carton of takeaway. “Once Sous is feeling better they can go right back to screwing each other and help us finish of the last of these fuckers off and he won’t care.”

“Eh. Suppose so. Did you get naan bread?”

They’re all back in the same place, literally the same fucking spot they were in last night watching Claquesous slowly bleed to death, but it may as well be an entirely different house. They lean back and watch Gueulemer get hit in the face by the package of bread Glorieux throws at him, they smile as Capron jabs Babet out of the way with a steel fork so she can fit under the blanket.

They’re all spread out across the room, the floor covered in shitty mattresses and couch cushions; blankets, towels and pillows in every direction. It’ll be like sleeping in the middle of a dog pack tonight. 

They’re handed a plate of their own, and Capron sends a few more bits of cutlery flying haphazardly in their direction, and they hurriedly duck out of the way of the butter knife as it thuds into the wall behind them. “Oi!”

Capron just rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up. We’ve all seen you go snatching knives out of mid-air, don’t be a wuss.”

They send a forkful of gloopy potato back at her on principle, only to laugh as Capron suddenly has to throw herself back. Babet practically dives over her lap, spilling rice all over the floor as he catches the flying projectile of food in his mouth while Glorieux cheers. Babet is laughing through a mouth full of potato, and even Gueulemer is grinning as Capron goes to stab Babet with the fork again.

Montparnasse twitches slightly in his sleep and Claquesous unconsciously shifts towards him, and Fauntleroy smiles into a mouthful of curry.

The shadows outside are falling fast, and the house is warm with the people inside. Tonight, they will all sleep in the living room, cramming mattresses every which way until they can’t walk to the bathroom without falling over someone and earning an earful of sleepy abuse.

They wouldn’t trade places for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr's](https://radpeacharbiter.tumblr.com) a bit of a mess but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. I hope you all enjoyed this! Well, maybe that's the wrong word.


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